STAR WARS: The Emperor's Mages
by Kieranfoy
Summary: When the Imperial Outer Rim Scouts discover a small, out of the way plant in the Cloak of the Sith region, the wizards of Earth are left scrambling for cover, and a young savior of the wizarding world moves towards his destiny.
1. Chapter the First

**STAR WARS:**

**The Emperor's Mages.**

**Chapter The First:**

In Which Our Journey Begins

_A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away:_

_After the Rebellion's crushing defeat at the Battle of the Yavin, the Galactic Empire, under the wise and benevolent rule of Emperor Palpatine, began an unheard of period of expansion. First, the Corporate Sector, long a thorn in the Empire's side, was crushed the battle of Kiegvhin's Folly, named after the fabled platinum-rich asteroid that was said to exist in the region._

_Once the Corporate Sector Authority had been shattered beyond repair, its corrupt leaders rounded up and justly tortured and executed, and the Imperial Governors set firmly in control, the Empire had few places left to expand. This situation, if left unresolved, would cause the Galactic Empire to fall into the self-same corruption and avarice that had riddled the Republic. The Empire, deprived of the continued conquest that has fed tyrannical empires of its ilk for millennia, would consume itself like a serpent eating it's own tail._

_There was only one solution that the Emperor's advisers could see. Expand into the Outer Rim, a place long bereft of civilization and law._

_To this noble purpose, the Imperial Outer Rim Scouts were formed, given uniforms, ships, and accolades galore, and politely ordered to get the hell out of the government's sight and start making news-worthy discoveries._

_One scout, on what he cynically believed would be a one way trip to the Cloak of the Sith region to investigate a, quote, 'anomaly in the fabric of space-time', made a discovery which would change his life, and the fate of the Galactic Empire, forever…_

- From Shattered Wands and Rattled 'Sabers: an Informal But True History of the Wizard-Imperial Alliance, By Albus Dumbledore.

**Unnamed Sector, Cloak of the Sith Region, Outer Rim. 3 Octander, 2 ABY.**

Imperial Outer Rim Scout Lieutenant Jareth Rand swore loudly, and slammed his hydro-spanner against the hyper-drive manifold.

The thrice be-damned piece of kriffing coro-slime that had repaired this ship last would have a great deal of explaining to do, and Lieutenant Rand swore to himself that the void-breathing idiot would do so to the highest authorities.

The blasted thing had been on the fritz ever since he had left Ord Mantel. He'd spent half the trip buried in the thing, leaving the piloting to his droid, R2-A3.

"Beep boppity bleep booboooo." A metallic whine drifted from the scout ship's cockpit. Jared translated it to mean something along the lines of 'Come quick, you have to see this!,' although substantially less emotional in its deliverance.

Jareth, being an emotionally mature individual, jerked in surprise at the noise, slammed his head against the low ceiling, dropped his hydro-spanner on his foot, and turned red in the face. Slowly, and with great deliberation, he informed the universe in general and R2-A3 in particular precisely what the both of them could do with the ship, technical malfunctions, and the recently dropped tools; and this was most emphatically not an instruction to utilize the latter to repair the particular examples of the middle item that currently plagued the former.

"Beep boop pidooooooo!"

"Oh, fine!" he screeched, "But if this isn't good, I'll have you melted down for spare parts."

As it turned out, it was good.

They had entered a certain region of space that I'm sure will be very familiar to my devoted readers. Lieutenant Rand could do nothing but stare in awe. There was a whole solar system out there, right in the middle of the… time-space distortion thing. He had thought that that was impossible.

"A3," he called softly, as if to speak louder would be to blaspheme against the miracle before him, "Take us down."

_And so Imperial Outer Rim Scout Lieutenant Jareth Rand discovered the world of Earth. This world had long gone undiscovered due to the odd time-space distortion that most reputable scientists had declared would obviously render such a world uninhabitable._

_But time and space, as Lieutenant Rand would discover, were not the only things that were distorted by the region. The Force, also, was changed by the area, as were those who wielded it. The alteration was almost undetectable in the Force, but the Force-wielders had changed beyond recognition._

_They had become wizards…_

- From Shattered Wands and Rattled 'Sabers: an Informal But True History of the Wizard-Imperial Alliance, By Albus Dumbledore.

**Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. October 10, 1996.**

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, his backside firmly planted in his thinking chair.

The chair, which had originally belonged to Godric Gryffyndor, had been the traditional seat of the Head of Gryffyndor House. It has gone out of fashion during the reign of Queen Victoria, being considered far too plain and humble for a professor of the greatest institute of magical learning in the Western world.

But, as the current Headmaster had discovered in his fifth year, (after finding it in the Room of Requirement while trying to dispose of a bottle of smuggled Scotch) it made an excellent chair in which to think about, variously: esoteric methods of Transfiguration, the affairs of the world, and how the Hell one was going to explain being in the Room of Requirement with a bottle of whiskey in hand when the Caretaker arrived in the morning to undo the lock-spell he had recently installed.

But even his hard-won thinking chair couldn't help Albus Dumbledore figure out what he was going to do about this scout from the stars. The story that he had told Minister Fudge before passing out in his bed at St. Mungos had been utterly fantastical, but they had been forced to believe it when a metal… thing had whizzed into the room, beeping loudly enough to wake the dead.

Hadn't woken Rand, though.

Fudge, of course, thought only of his own popularity. If he was the one to forge an alliance between the Galactic Empire and Wizarding World, an alliance that could take his people into the stars, he might never have to leave the Minister's office.

Albus was less than sanguine about the idea. Reading between the lines of what Rand had told them and the propaganda pamphlets in his ship, the Empire was a tyrannical government ruled by a sorcerous despot who put Voldemort to shame.

"'And nine rings'," he quoted ruefully, "'were given to race of Men, who –above all else- desire power.' And, of course, those rings were magic."

A soothing crooning purled in Dumbledore's right ear. Fawkes, sensing the Headmaster's distress, had landed on the chair's back.

"Well, old friend," Dumbledore murmured quietly, "We'll find some way to stop this. We have to." He smiled slightly as he remembered another muggle book.

"We wizards must be the magic against the magic; and against the steel, too."

_A noble sentiment indeed, but one that was ultimately thwarted by the specter of politics. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if the Alliance had not… no, this is untrue. I always wonder what would have happened. In the end, as it turns out, it was a necessity of the highest order, but… the costs were almost too high. May the Light preserve me, they were too high!_

-From the diary of Albus Dumbledore.

**Department of Secrets. October 31, 1989.**

"All the Empire wishes, Minister Fudge, is to exist in harmony with our brethren of Earth, and to freely exchange culture and information."

The words flowed as slickly as greased mud over ice from Moff Tarkin's lips, and had approximately the same foul taste, as far as Dumbledore was concerned. He wanted desperately to speak up, to denounce the Empire and its tricks, and to hex the lithesome Moff out of this world and into the next. But to do so would be to face death himself, he knew, and so he kept his peace.

"Well, of course, Ambassador," Fudge agreed obsequiously, head nodding so hard it almost fell off. "This is some that we greatly desire, also. Perhaps, one day, we might even petition to join your noble Empire."

_Emperor Palpatine, in his wisdom, was unwilling to wait upon the foolish Minister Fudge for permission to bring Imperial enlightenment to the benighted wizards of the planet Earth. And so, with blessings of the people of Earth and the Galaxy at large, our beloved and fearless leader authorized Operation Terran Freedom, a police action designed to free the Earthlings from the grip of a thousand petty governments._

_A challenge was made by traitors in the Imperial Senate on the basis of some supposed violation of the War Powers Act, but this was solved by the just dissolution of that archaic and inflexible body, and the righteous execution of the traitors._

A Defense of the Just and Righteous Actions of the Galactic Empire Concerning the Wizarding Matter. Essay by Melk Saab, Chief of the Imperial Propaganda Dissemination Department.

**Various locations. December 29, 1989 or Decander 29, 2 ABY.**

At number 10 Downing Street, the muggle Prime Minister gazed down at the latest report from the military. It wasn't good. The alien ships had landed only three hours ago, and they had already taken half the country!

He picked up the phone, dialed the number they had provided over loudspeaker, and said the words he had never thought that a Prime Minister of England would ever say.

"We surrender."

At the same time that the British Prime Minister was signing England's surrender papers with the Queen watching sadly on, the President of the United States was in a seedy hotel room, a young intern keeping him… company. He was dozing when the Imperial troopers blasted in the hotel's front door, and was pulling up his trousers when they tore the door from his own room. He had just done up the fly when they stunned him and hauled him outside, to be taken to some Force-forsaken prison asteroid.

In orbit, the Emperor sat in his throne on his flagship. Shadows cloaked the throne and its occupant, and the officer who was making his report seemed to be speaking into a bottomless abyss.

At least, that was Vader's small fancy, as he looked at the stammering fool with a contemptuous expression that was hidden by his mask.

"In summation, m-m-m-my l-l-lord, the invasion g-goes as planned."

"Excellent, Lieutenant. And the Wizarding Governments?"

"C-cooperative to the point of obsequiousness, my lord," the Lieutenant drawled.

Vader quashed a chuckle. At least he doesn't stutter so much when he's being ironic, he thought.

"They shall make an excellent addition to our forces, master," he intoned in sepulchral tones. "This magic may have less sheer power and range than traditional uses of the Force, but it's flexibility and structured nature could make a powerful asset indeed."

"I noticed this," Palpatine hissed in his eerie voice.

"But first, these young wizards must be trained in the ways of the empire, My Lord, must they not?"

_And so it was that Hogwarts underwent the greatest change in its history. For the first time, her Headmaster was driven out by a foreign power. For the first time, Hogwarts served a foreign lord. And for the first time, Hogwarts taught the Dark Arts._

_And, of course, it was no longer called Hogwarts._

- Hogwarts: A History.


	2. Chapter the Second

**Chapter The Second:**

In Which a Letter is Received.

**Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. August 20, 1997.**

Dudley Dursley fetched the mail that morning, the sane as he had ever since he had been old enough to walk out the door, and tall enough to reach the mailbox. Life had taken a distinct downward turn for Dudley since that fateful day eight years ago. Before that, as he could vaguely remember, he had been the loved one, the normal one, the one Father's precious Establishment loved. The Establishment, he had been told, was made of people who were normal. Normal meant a decent person: one who was Christian, married if adult, legitimate, conservative, and non-wizardly. Not that Father or Mother would ever say it that plainly. All they would say would be 'normal,' but that would be enough.

Then had come the Empire. The bloody Galactic Empire, with it's troopers and its Emperor, and the ever-present Imperial Intelligence Service with its Force-sensitive spies. The Empire valued highly those skilled in the Force, and valued even more the unique Force-sensitives this world alone produced. The Wizards became First-class citizens of the new world order, the Champions of the Dark Side and all that rot.

And Harry was a wizard. Harry bloody-be-dammed Potter, the son of his Mum's freak sister, the one she had hated, suddenly became the family's prize. The fact that he had a wizard-talented nephew launched Vernon's career. He took Grunnings from a minor drill company to a tool empire, and all because his nephew was the Boy-Who-Refused-To-Decently-Die.

Of course, Dudley was the one who had not been a wizard. Even though he was their son he had been tossed away like so much garbage, condemned to a life shut away in a cupboard under the stairs.

These melancholy thoughts ended when he opened the mailbox. The only letter in there was written on Holo-plast. It was a letter from off-world, then, or…

"Dad, it's Harry's letter!" he shouted, delighted that his unbearable cousin was finally leaving. "He's gotten in!"

_It's difficult to describe the sensations I felt when I heard Dudley's announcement. Excited. There was a lot of anticipation. Patriotism, certainly. The graduates of the Imperial Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry were the most fearsome of the Empire's servant, the Imperial Mages. More than the IIS with it's mind-reading skills, it was the Emperor's Mages who sent a shiver down the spines of the Empire's foes, wielding both the traditional Force and the powers of the Arts Magick to slay the foes of the Emperor Palpatine. And I got to be one._

_Not bad for the son of a freak, eh, Aunt Marge?_

-From By Wand and Saber: The Autobiography of Harry Potter.

**Platform 9¾. September 1, 1997.**

When Harry James Potter arrived at Platform 9 ¾, he couldn't help but stare. At least his whole family was staring with him. What had once been a small train station in a small vest-pocket dimension had been expanded into a fully stocked space port. While the need for secrecy had been made obsolete by the Imperial Conquest, secrecy was still a deeply ingrained habit for Wizard-kind. Thus, all off-world traffic involving magic or the Wizarding world came here, as opposed to the larger Heathrow Spaceport.

A full nine of the fifty-seater buses that sat on the tarmac were painted the bright emerald of the Academy, as opposed to the neutral gray-blue of public transport ships, and the dull gray of privately owned ships. There was also one emerald green Lambda class shuttle with sliver trim, away from the others.

Someone cleared their throat behind Harry, and he turned around to see an Imperial official in a black robe with gold rank cylinders and a lightsaber and wand hanging on his belt. "Apologies if I startled you, Mr. Potter. I simply didn't want you to get on the wrong ship by mistake. You see that Lambda class shuttle over there?' Harry nodded, too awed to speak. One of the Imperial Wizards, and he was speaking respectfully to him! "You see, that shuttle is reserved for the children of important families. The offspring of high-ranking officials, scions of old pureblood families, and suchlike. Being one of the Potters, you have had a seat reserved for you on that shuttle for a while. It would be a disgrace if you were to travel on an ordinary ship." While he sounded serious, there was a flash of dry humor in his voice. "Go on, off with you. The ship leaves in a few minutes." At that, the Wizard strode off towards the shuttle.

"Well?" Dudley snapped impatiently, "Aren't you going to go?"

Vernon smacked the back of his head. "Be respectful to your cousin, boy. You're lucky we let you come at all! Now, Harry…" but Harry had already gone. He walked towards the shuttle, towards a destiny he could not even comprehend, his school robes flapping in the breeze.

Harry found that the only seat left open was right across from a bot with pale-blond hair and cold eyes.

"Draco Malfoy," the boy introduced himself with a nod of the head that seemed almost a bow.

"Harry Potter," Harry returned evenly, returning the nod.

"An honor," Malfoy drawled, infusing the words with such irony the Harry would have cringed, had it not been leavened with a slight smile. "The shaved gorilla to my left is Crabbe, and to the right, Goyle. You can consider them animate statuary, if you like, for all they talk."

Harry smirked. "Why not? Say, you seem rather in the know. Could you explain why we got on this ship, and not others?"

Malfoy's eyebrow rose, but he swiftly checked his expression. "Ah, I forgot that you were Muggle-raised. Most of us are purebloods, you see. Our parents and grandparents and so on were all wizards. It's a mark of distinction. Those here belong to old families. The others either have relatives in high places or exceptional talents."

"Ah, the blessed touch of favoritism," Harry sighed happily. "So, most of you destined for Slytherin, I take it?"

"Is there another House worth entering?" Malfoy queried blandly.

"I suppose not. Tell more about this pureblood stuff. I was, after all, muggle-raised."

"You'll find, Potter, that some Wizarding families are better than others, more in favor with the Emperor." His voiced lowered. "It's dangerous to associate with the wrong sort. I could help you there." He stuck out his hand. "Friends?"

Harry smiled, grasped Draco's hand, and shook it firmly.

"Friends, then."

**Hogwarts, Scotland. September 1, 1997.**

Hogwarts was beautiful from the sky. The green slate tiles on the roof seemed to glow in the sunlight, which also reflected of the pristine armor of the ceremonial honor guard that stood in silent ranks before the massive, verdigrised bronzium doors that were set into the carved stone wall.

The doors, which had been installed during the beginning days of the occupation, was decorated with embossed scenes of the history of the Dark Side, stretching back to the days of the First Great Schism on the left door, and the first recorded use of Dark Magic on the right. These panels ended in a representation of The Emperor's duel with his former master Obi-wan, and the founding of the Imperial Academy, respectively. Between the two extremes was pictured vast numbers of Dark figures, from Revan and Exar Kun to Morgan LeFay and Grindelwald; from the Sith and the Krath to the Knights of Walpurgis and the Mystics of the Whispering Skull.

Harry and Co. walked through those great doors, passing into the Imperial School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	3. Chapter the Third

**Chapter The Third:**

In Which Many Things Happen At Once.

_And thus did the Dark Side reign supreme over all of the Earth, and none sought to contest its might… right?_

_Errrr… not quite._

_The Jedi were not completely extinguished. Although Purges had slain many Jedi, some still lived, hiding on remote worlds. These Jedi flocked to the banner of the New Republic. Leia Organa and her allies had lived, and they organized a Rebellion composed of Jedi and Light Wizards from Earth; as well as Rebel forces, smugglers discontent with the Empire's rule, and even odder allies. Jedi survivors, such as Master Yoda and Master Fay had allied themselves with the Rebellion in attempt to return life to the dream they had served._

_The dream of democracy._

_They had, as the saying goes, set up camp in a desolate corner of the universe, a place ten parsecs from nowhere, the jumping-off point of Hell, a little rock the wizards had named New Albion, in honor of the land where Hogwarts had stood, proud and free, before the dominion of the Empire._

_And to this desolate place came a most unusual, and most appropriate, visitor._

-From A History of the Rebellion and it's Ramifications, by Faldwar Fiddlewhoop.

Albus Dumbledore drew the hood of his grey cloak defensively over his face, and wrapped the cloak tighter around himself to prevent the tell-tale eye-searing purple of his robes from showing. The howling wind sought to tear his cloak from him, and he fought with equal fervor to keep it on. If anyone identified him, and squealed to the Imperials, New Albion would be compromised.

And New Albion could not be compromised.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore would not let New Albion be compromised.

To the best of his knowledge, the Imperials had no idea in the slightest as to the location of the Rebellion's primary base. That would not change.

Ah, there was the door. The door seemed like nothing more than a splash of bluish rock in the dark-grey granite of the cliff-face, but it was truly a concealed door to the Rebellion's head-quarters.

Well, he thought. Now comes the hard part.

While Dumbledore was trying to get the Bounty Hunter's Guild to join the Rebellion (and succeeding with a speech that would go down in history), Harry was sitting on a small, uncomfortable stool in the Great Hall, looking very nervously at the several-hundred odd students, who watched back intently, hoping that the boy-who-lived would be Sorted into their house.

"Hmmm," the Sorting Hat murmured. "Ah…"

"Ah, what?" Harry snapped irritably. "What do you see?"

The Hat tilted on his head, and Harry got the feeling that its eyebrows would have angled, had it had them. "I see an impatient boy who needs to learn how to respect his elders. And, with nearly two millennia over you, I'm quite elderer."

"S'not a word," Harry grumbled, but kept his peace, otherwise.

"Quite a streak of ambition, I see; yes, very Slytherin. Not a bad mind, too; you could make a fine scholar, and the Ravens would be proud to have, once you stopped getting others to do you studying for you." This was, undoubtedly, a dig at Harry's bullying poor Dudley into doing his research paper for English. "Hmmm, too much ambition for a Raven, I think. SLYTHERIN!"

**SLYTHERIN NOTICE BOARD:**

_(Official Notice)_

_There will be no magic in the corridors between class. Violators will be given detention._

_There will be no graffiti in the bathrooms. Violators will be whipped._

_There will be no slandering of the name or reputation of the Emperor, his Apprentice, headmaster Sbaoe, or the Empire and Academy in general. Violators will be cruciated._

Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair at the Council table on New Albion, gazing serenely at the motley collection of Jedi, Rebels, bounty hunters, and smugglers that formed the galactic portion of the Rebellion. The earthly portion sat to his right and left, in the forms of Professors Snape and McGonagal and Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt.

Earth's allies stared back at Dumbledore with varied expressions; distrust, interest, boredom, and even fear were all in evidence. In fact, Master Fay's padawan was the only one who was not looking at Dumbledore; he was, in fact, staring into space, humming 'Scarborough Fair' to himself.

The head of the Bounty Hunter's Guild, Cradossk, glared at the headmaster with the twin emotions of distrust and suspicion etched on his face. "What, exactly, do you want with the Guild, Dumbledore?" Cradossk hissed.

"I should think," one of the other hunters, a woman with black hair and long black coat, lazily interjected, "that how much he'll pay is the more important question."

"That," Cradossk snapped, "is why I head the Guild, and not you, Zardra."

"You head the Guild because you backstabbed all your competitors," the man sitting next to her snapped.

Cradossk glared at him. "Something you'd do well to keep in mind, Alaric. They were far above you, those I killed, and I could kill you-"

"Enough, please," Dumbledore said quietly. "Infighting aids only our enemies."

"Correct Headmaster Dumbledore is," agreed Yoda quietly. "If fight amongst ourselves we do, the Dark Side we aid, not the Light. And," he added, shooting a chiding look at Cradossk, "your payment you just might lessen. Although, think I should that the knowledge of the Emperor's dislike of the Guild reason enough to help should be."

"Indeed," said Mon Mothma coolly. "If you insist on acting like a barbarian, bounty hunter, we'll insist on an exasperation deduction."

A Jedi clad in grey robes with leather-reinforced sleeves snickered behind her, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

Cradossk merely hissed.

The room that the Emperor received visitors in on the world of Byss was sumptuously decorated. Tapestries that had been taken from tombs of ancient Sith Lords detailing the powers of the Dark Side hung on the walls. The chairs that were placed around the table made of rare zeke wood were crafted of bloodwood and upholstered in askajiaan fabric, the most costly fabric in the galaxy. Abstract bronzium sculptures of ancient philosophers stood guard over the entrance, and ancient Sith relics lined the walls.

Grand Moff Tarkin hated it.

An ascetic by nature, Tarkin was disgusted to see the money that had been wasted, merely for the glorification of a half-mummified, power-hungry, deranged Sith monarch. He sat amidst millions, no, billions of credits worth of impractical finery while Imperial soldiers fought with blasters that had smudged and cloudy focussing crystals (accounting for the legendary bad aim of stormtroopers; even a master marksman would miss eight times out of ten with those) and Imperial pilots flew fighters that had no shields. It was a disgrace.

Nevertheless, he did his best to smile charmingly at the Emperor.

The aforementioned deranged mummy-Sith shifted in his throne (which was made of bones; Tarkin didn't care to speculate whose) and said "Governor Tarkin. How pleasant of you to join me. And who," he added, his gaze fastening on Tarkin's companion, "is this? I have received no word of a Lady Tarkin. And really, Wilhuff, giving the rank of Admiral to your concubine is rather excessive."

Tarkin kept his face studiously blank. The Emperor knew full well who she was; he was simply mocking the both of them. "You Imperial Majesty, may I introduce Admiral Daala, my protégé."

"Hmmm," the Emperor murmured. "Yes… She has some strength to her, and wit too. Or so I would assume, given her remarkable calm."

It was just like the old bat to test them like this, Tarkin reflected.

"You Majesty," Daala said, bowing deeply. "It is an great honor."

"Daala," Tarkin explained, "is my recommendation for the post of Governor of Earth. I believe that, of all the Admiralty, she is best suited to deal with the Earth situation. She will far surpass her predecessor, Governor Frax. You will recall, I trust, that Admiral Daala oversaw the taskforce that defended Bevel Lemelisk and the other scientists who invented the Death Star, among other inventions."

"Yes, I know," Palpatine replied dismissively. "Petty toys, they were. Remember, Tarkin, machines are nothing next to the might of the Force. Had I not been on the Death Star to counter young Skywalker, the Death Star might well have been destroyed and the Rebellion triumphant. But," he added lightly, "enough of that. I assume that your recommendation comes with the approval of the Council of Moffs?"

"Of course, you Majesty. I have their full support." Or, rather, he had gained their full support after the two loudest dissenters had eaten some bad shellfish, courtesy of bounty hunter and assassin Alaric Acheron. Very bad shellfish. Tarkin had no idea in the slightest why the Genoharadan had felt the need to offer him their services in this matter, but he was grateful nonetheless.

"And you, I trust, are duly aware of the honor done to you by the Council?" Palpatine droned in the tones of one who truly didn't give a hoot.

"Most aware, Majesty," Daala agreed. "And quite overwhelmed."

"We can only hope that the task is not similarly overwhelming," the Sith Lord purred evilly.

Alaric Acheron settled back in his chair, wiggling slightly to find a comfortable position in the brushed-steel contraption, raised his glass, and swallowed the shot of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, wincing slightly as he did so. That stuff was strong, and he wasn't much of a drinker. But Zardra had challenged him to a drinking contest, and he was damned if he was going to wimp out.

They were both sitting at a private table at the Hekate, a Wizarding nightclub (although it also operated during the day) that had a reputation as the most stylish place for Dark Wizards and Light to meet, discuss things, and get pasted on a plethora of alcoholic beverages. The décor involved a lot of brushed steel, with exposed girders futuristically perforated with holes down the length and polished to a liquid sheen and blue accent lights and fog machines placed at regular intervals around the place (rumor had it that the designer had been muggle). Even the tables had blue lights inset in their translucent plastic tops.

Zardra smiled slightly, and tossed back her drink with far greater ease than Alaric had shown. "I'll bet you wish you were back on you ship reading, eh?" she drawled.

"Oh, no. Alcohol aside, the company is infinitely preferable to that found in my ship. Astro droids are great pilots, but poor conversashhio… conversationalists."

"Ah. A point, I'll admit," she acknowledged.

Alaric lifted his glass, triumphantly threw it back, and slowly slid onto the table in a dead faint.

"Lightweight," Zardra muttered.


End file.
